


Bargaining

by HollyShadow88



Series: ABCs of Harry Potter [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Authority Figures, Bagman is surprisingly sly and tricky, Death Eaters, Gen, Journalism, Legal Drama, Mystery, Pre-Hogwarts, Quidditch, The Daily Prophet, Wizengamot, dark!Bagman, early days of Rita Skeeter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 20:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1997247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HollyShadow88/pseuds/HollyShadow88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After what was honestly a farce of a trial, Ludo Bagman is feeling rather cheerful about his future outlook, thanks very much.  The outlook of a certain fresh young reporter for the Prophet doesn't seem too bad either from what he sees upon encountering her in a tucked away pub in Muggle London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bargaining

**Author's Note:**

> I tried really hard in the process of making this series to stick to going alphabetically by last name. But, TECHNICALLY, Bagman is not the first HP character with the last name starting with B - that honor actually goes to some random Hogwarts professor who is mentioned maybe once. I really like Ludo's character and hate that he was cut from the movies, so I couldn't resist writing a story about him. I made him quite a bit darker than our usual more comical view of him, which I still think fits his characterization well. Regardless, Dark!Bagman was ridiculously fun to write.

“Mr. Bagman! What will you do now that you’ve been acquitted?”

“Will you be returning to the Quidditch pitch any time soon, Mr. Bagman?”

“Mr. Bagman, is your offer for a Ministry job still standing?”

“Mr. Bagman!”

“Mr. Bagman!”

Raising a stocky hand, Ludo brought the crowd to an eager silence. He grinned charmingly at the group of media personnel, a surge of pleasure rising in the pit of his stomach. He always enjoyed the appreciation and attention that came with being famous; it was half the reason he became a Quidditch player, he suspected. A sigh of relief escaped his throat as he readied his prepared response.

“I am incredibly grateful for the endless support and encouragement shown to me by my fans over the last few weeks. This entire situation has been an unfortunate misunderstanding which, thanks to the dedication of the Ministry of Magic and the tireless work of the Wizengamot, has been justly resolved. For the time being, I plan on resting and refocusing – I’ll need a clear, centered head before deciding what I shall do next.”

Once his mouth had closed, the cries returned, renewed and invigorated by his brief statement. He beamed at the group and pushed himself easily through, refusing to speak anymore. He knew many grew disgruntled with the paparazzi quickly, but he flourished in it. The constant bombardment of inquiries, the blinding flashes of cameras and the rapid scribbling of notes – it was infuriating at times, certainly, but it signified that he was **something**. He was important, significant; that he mattered. It frustrated him at times, just as it did many others, but at least it provided him with the proof that he was known.

Somehow he managed to make his way to the Floos, giving the press a final enthusiastic wave of farewell before entering the green tinged fire. Rather than return straight to his home, he climbed out of a local open fireplace in the heart of London. He immediately headed for a familiar pub, a Muggle establishment he often frequented when he’d rather not have the entire Wizarding community seeing him in a drunken stupor. Once inside, he made his way to an available stool, giving the barkeep a friendly nod. The man responded similarly before sending him the usual pint Ludo requested. He took a long gulp, relishing the sharp burn. A slight chuckle escaped his lips as he studied the murky liquid’s surface.

“Mr. Bagman. Fancy finding **you** here.” He turned sharply at the feminine voice, a frown creasing his brow. The attractive blonde smirked knowingly down at him, her ruby lips curled in a sharp, counterfeit smile. Her heels clicked determinedly across the grungy wooden floor as she came to sit delicately at his side, tossing her crocodile-skin bag onto the counter before waving over the barkeep. After ordering a whiskey, she turned her brilliant green eyes back on him, readjusting the small spectacles resting on the very edge of her nose with a single thick forefinger. Ludo forced down a second swig of alcohol before deciding to speak.

“I’ve heard of you,” he remarked, facing away from her. “Rita Skeeter. You’re new with the Prophet.”

“New, yes, but you’ve heard of me nonetheless.” He sensed the arrogant smile in the tone of her voice. Hearing a soft click, possibly of her handbag snapping closed, he growled slightly.

“You will not be recording this.” It was a demand rather than a request, but he was startled when she laughed at his exasperation. Narrowing his eyes, he glanced at her, noticing that her hands were empty and her arms crossed.

“I had no intention to, surprisingly,” she smoothly replied, turning her smile to the barkeeper as he placed her drink before her. She sipped it slowly, arched brows watching Ludo over its brim. “I simply needed to satisfy my own curiosity. **This** time.”

“What do you want, Skeeter?” he grunted, gaze falling forward once more, away from hers. He’d humor the woman, to a certain extent, but had no intention of revealing the truth.

“Are you really innocent?”

He blinked several times at her unabashed question. So far, she was the only one to ask it, though it seemed the most obvious of inquiries given the circumstances; most of the press had been more interested in what he’d do next, rather than the reason he was on trial itself. He had to admire her bluntness – it was a sign of the type of reporter she’d become with practice, making her ideal for the excuse that was the Daily Prophet. It took him a long, pondering moment of watching her expectant young face for him to find a response.

“Why that, of all things? Don’t you trust our judicial system to make the correct decision?”

Her cynical snort of derision sent a jolt of amusement through him. “Please. The Ministry, while a bit better off now that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has been defeated, is pathetically biased. A young, attractive, and popular Quidditch player on trial for discussing something as trivial as you claimed with a family friend who just so happened to be a Death Eater? It would have been more shocking had you been found guilty.”

“But you are uncertain.”

Her face turned sour, her lips pursing. “I am a journalist, Mr. Bagman. I seek the truth in order to properly relay it to the public. Whether I think you are guilty or innocent is trivial.”

“You will not go far in this business with that attitude,” he admonished. “The public may **think** they want the truth, but can they deal with the consequences that come with it? What would happen if, say, you discovered I knew exactly what I was doing when I spoke to Augustus Rookwood?”

An almost unnoticeable gasp came from her dark lips. “You…did?”

Chuckling, he took a sip from his nearly empty mug. “Perhaps. Then again, perhaps I simply wanted to catch up with an old acquaintance. That’s what that whole trial was about, after all – did charming, personable Ludovic Bagman, famous Beater for the Wimbourne Wasps, knowingly and with full intent of defying the British Ministry of Magic, reveal top governmental secrets to a follower of Lord Voldemort?” Finishing the last dregs of his drink, he stood, straightening his jacket before leaning close to her ear. “I suppose we’ll never know, hmm?”

He walked from the pub, satisfied with himself despite failing in his goal of gaining a drunkenness strong enough to satisfy the stresses of the last month. That idiot Rookwood would be properly punished, locked away in Azkaban where his secrets could stay appropriately hidden. As for Skeeter…she showed promise. He remained hopeful that this encounter would steer her in the right direction.

In fact, he would bet on it.


End file.
